Love in a Mist

by Sarah Harrison

  Her house was on a new development on my side of the city but a little further out, near the hospital. She was ten years older than me, a graduate nurse who kept her hand in on the wards against the moment when her youngest was in school all day and she could go back full time. Whenever I was with Elsa I thought that if I was ill or injured she’d be exactly the person I’d want ministering to me – tall, cheerful, kind, competent, you could practically see the milk of human kindness coursing through her veins.

  Her house would never have featured in a lifestyle magazine but it was nothing if not homely. She moved a pile of ironing so I could sit at what was probably a ‘breakfast bar’ but was covered in assorted paper, mugs and a jigsaw.

  ‘Tea? Or there’s some white in the fridge.’

  ‘Tea’s great.’

  She retrieved a couple of the mugs and rinsed them under the tap. ‘Can I ask what brought this on? It’s been ages, it’s so brilliant to see you.’

  ‘Does there have to be a reason?’

  ‘Of course not, but knowing you I bet there is one.’

  There was no point in flannelling her, but I didn’t – not yet anyway – want to get into specifics. ‘I’ve just been feeling a bit low.’

  ‘Shoulders for crying on, speciality of the house. Sugar?’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘Go girl.’

  ‘I don’t usually.’

  ‘Wheesht! You don’t have to justify yourself to me. Saucered and blown it is …’ She poured and stirred. ‘Don’t know about you, but the sofa calls.’

  We shifted more clutter and made ourselves comfortable. I asked about the children, and her nice husband Paddy, a stalwart of the Round Table and still a useful rugby player. Her answers were full of her typically cheerfully sardonic humour. Life had been pretty good to Elsa, she’d have been the first to admit it, but she was never even close to smug.

  ‘And what about you?’ she asked. ‘Boss treating you well?’

  ‘He’s just been away for three weeks … But yes, he does. Is.’

  ‘Three weeks? Does that mean you’ve had time off as well?’ I explained the situation, mentioning as I did so the upcoming television series.

  ‘Gosh, I’ve read that – has it been cast? Will you be hobnobbing with the luvvies?’

  ‘I very much doubt it.’

  ‘I wonder if they’ll consult him,’ mused Elsa. ‘Imagine creating a character and then seeing someone completely wrong in the part. It’s bad enough when you’ve read the book, let alone written it.’

  ‘He intends to be a very well-behaved author and not interfere.’

  ‘What’s he like?’ Elsa stretched out her legs in pink joggers and rested her mug on her stomach with both hands. ‘You’ve never really told me. Terrifyingly intellectual? I mean I’m sure I’d be terrified …’ I gave her a sceptical look. ‘OK, not terrified, but aware of my shortcomings.’

  ‘I can honestly say that he’s never made me feel like that. Intentionally or otherwise.’

  ‘Good. Mind you, your self-esteem is in pretty good shape. As a general rule.’ She took a sip. ‘Want to tell me about it? Or a case of MYOB?’

  There was no fooling Elsa. ‘I don’t like myself much at the moment.’

  ‘You’re a crap judge of character. I’m a good one, and I’ve always quite liked you.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Pleasure. So long as it’s not him who’s making you feel like that. Because work’s work and you can always do it somewhere else.’

  ‘No. It’s definitely not him. In fact …’ I was about to say that he was the one person who never failed to boost my self-esteem, but changed my mind. ‘There’s been some family stuff going on.’

  ‘Has there? Welcome to my world.’ She had no idea. ‘Poor you, that’s always the worst. With your relations you feel there ought to be some special magic that will see you all through to the other side, but is there? Is there hell. My sister and I can still fight to wound. I shan’t ask unless you want to say.’

  ‘It’s complicated.’

  ‘Well of course.’

  I couldn’t explain, even to the empathetic Elsa, about the secrets and silences that characterized my family life. However virulent her spats with her sister, they were the stuff of healthy sibling rivalry, not to be compared with what ailed me.

  She waited for a moment, just in case, and then said, ‘I tell you what though, Flo. Don’t let that grind you down. You have nothing to reproach yourself with.’

  Good friend that she was, she phrased this as a statement, not an opinion, and I was happy to accept it for now. We talked for another hour about her work, the idiosyncrasies of patients and their relatives, of colleagues and the hospital system. I told her about the trip to Corsica that I had planned for the new year, and she expressed admiration that I was going on my own.

  ‘Now that’s brave. I’m not sure I could do it.’

  ‘Of course you could – if you had to.’

  ‘I mean from choice.’

  ‘I like it. No-one to consult, making my own choices, eating what I want.’

  ‘I suppose. But aren’t there times when you want to, you know, say “Ouch” or “Wow” or something?’

  ‘Well, yes. But I have to save that for when I get back.’

  ‘When you can hit the pub with me.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Elsa’s children were due to be returned at five, so at four thirty I made a move to go. She came out of the front door with me and gave me a hug.

  ‘Don’t leave it so long, please.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘Anyway I shan’t let you, I shall be on your case.’

  As I was getting into the car, she waved and called, ‘Be good to yourself, Flo!’

  FOURTEEN

  Edwin was due to return on Saturday, when I wouldn’t be there. I found myself thinking about this and regretting it more than was reasonable. I had spent so much time alone in the house over the past weeks, not just filing and fielding calls but doing those odd jobs around the place that I hoped wouldn’t seem officious – clearing the bindweed had encouraged me to further efforts in the garden, and indoors I’d polished some silver, de-scaled the kettle, replaced the odd light bulb and scrubbed the red wine mark out of the hall carpet. The papers in the shed were now immaculate. I hadn’t liked to go in and out once the task was accomplished, but I occasionally peeped through the window just to remind myself how calm and orderly it looked and how pleased he would be when he first walked in. I considered leaving a ‘Welcome Home’ card, but decided that was over the top. Instead I bought an elegant postcard from the cathedral shop, scribbled Welcome back! F and propped it against the kettle. The picture on the card was of the rose window with its dazzling mosaic of colours.

  There was no reason why I should have heard from him over the weekend, but I was still a little crestfallen when I didn’t. I did my supermarket shop, walked by the river, browsed in the bookshop and did some domestic chores. I very nearly contacted Elsa again, but stopped myself just in time. Sunday seemed even longer, a great yawn of a day to be filled. What, I wondered, would Edwin be doing on his first day home? He’d be jet lagged so would probably be awake early, if he’d slept at all. The morning was one of wind and teasing sunshine, a painter’s changeable sharp light. I told myself that a walk would snap me out of it, and set off (from habit or some more complicated impulse) in the direction of the cathedral close.

  There was a service in progress, so I didn’t go in. This was one of the few times when I regretted my lack of religion – perhaps a real belief in a higher power would have helped to soothe me. I walked right round the close, pausing on the south side to sit on a bench for a while, but the clouds came over and the drop in temperature persuaded me to move on.

  The frightening thought occurred to me: Am I old before my time? Had self-sufficiency bordering on pigheadedness turned me into a fogey? I couldn’t work myself out. But if that was the case, would I be experiencin
g this nervous excitement as Edwin’s house came into view?

  I was reminded of one of my parents’ favourite songs. Their tastes were not the same, but they both liked the musical My Fair Lady and especially the number ‘On the Street Where You Live’. I didn’t know all the words, but one line came to me: ‘All at once am I several storeys high!’ And I was, I really was. I stopped for a moment and told myself not to be childish, that it was pathetic to have a crush on my employer, especially when there were no other men in my life; when I could scarcely be said to have a life. I needed to get a grip and get out more. To meet people, for God’s sake! What was I doing hanging around outside his house on a Sunday afternoon just in case … in case what? I was not the female version of the dashing Freddy Eynsford-Hill; I was in danger of becoming a sad sack.

  And then he appeared.

  But not from the house – a car drew up in the parking area at the corner of the close, and Edwin got out and went round to open the boot. As he closed the boot and picked up his cases the driver of the car got out, locked it – I saw the lights wink – and accompanied him to the house.

  Rachel.

  The two of them went up the steps, Edwin put down the cases, fished out his keys and opened the front door, standing aside and touching Rachel’s back lightly as she passed. They were smiling. He picked up the bags and went in, heeling the door shut behind him.

  They hadn’t seen me, though I felt like a pillar of fire standing there.

  I couldn’t even bear to continue walking that way, to pass the house. I turned and made my way back round the close. The clouds had blown over and the sun was shining, the leaves on the trees flickered and danced. So much for the pathetic fallacy! As far as Mother Nature was concerned, if I’d felt pathetic before, that was nothing to my sense of humiliation now. For three weeks I had taken care of Edwin’s work, his house, his garden. I had learned more about him – and myself – while he was away. I had longed for his return, not only for the appreciation I hoped would come my way, but because I wanted to see him and be with him. Was that so stupid? There had been signs – our lunch together, his remark about not wanting me to leave – but had that been no more than expediency? And now Rachel was there, doubtless reporting back on me in glowing terms. I could hear her voice as she did so. She would go into the kitchen before him and see my postcard …

  Oh look! Isn’t that sweet of her?

  I didn’t realize how fast I was walking, or that I was crying, until I was halfway home and nearly stepped into the path of a car. The driver – a woman – had to brake violently, while leaning on her horn. I held up my hands in apology, but that wasn’t enough. She was enraged and I had given her a terrible fright. I heard her bellow, and her face as she leaned across to the window was a twisted, open-mouthed mask of fury. With justification – there was just time for me to glimpse a child’s seat in the back, a toddler strapped in and happily oblivious to her close shave.

  Back in the flat I gave in completely to a delayed shock reaction. I was cold and lightheaded, and shivering so convulsively that my muscles seemed to go into spasm. I craved a hot drink, but didn’t trust myself to boil a kettle. There was some cooking sherry in the cupboard and I poured a small shot into a tumbler, the bottle clinking in my unsteady hand. I downed it in one, and only just made it to the bedroom. I think I passed out for a few seconds because I don’t remember lying down, and when I came to I was sprawled across the corner of the mattress, half-kneeling on the floor. I was still shivering, but no longer faint. Taking it slowly, I managed to take off my shoes and outer clothes, put on my dressing gown and crawl under the duvet.

  When I eventually did drop off, it was into a shallow sleep, churning with dreams. At one point I dreamed of a roaring city street, with cars, buses and lorries travelling at speed, a howling ambulance, a yelping police car, horns, bells, shouts …

  I woke up stiff and sweaty, with no idea what the time was. The days were getting shorter and outside the window it was dusk. My watch said seven o’clock. I dragged myself up against the bed head. There was a small fist of pain over my right eye; the cooking sherry had done me no favours. Cautiously I got out of bed and went to the bathroom, lowering myself gingerly on to the closed loo seat. I stretched out my arm and turned on the hot tap. The mere sight of the steam was heartening. After I poured in some bubble bath and swirled the warm blue fragrance around with my hand, I began undressing with care. This, I thought, was what it must be like to be old and on one’s own – this fear of falling, of having an accident, of not having help to hand … Stop it. Naked, I stood on tiptoe, and stretched my arms above my head, fingers pointed, as far as I could reach, until my muscles trembled.

  I lay in the bath for half an hour, topping up the hot water, feeling my soft tissues slowly expand and relax. Physical recovery seemed a distinct possibility, but with it came the return of that other pain, for which there was no foreseeable cure. As I climbed out of the cooling water I confronted my reflection in the bathroom mirror. It was a shock. The last few hours had created a different picture in my mind’s eye, a picture of a stooped, frightened, unhappy, prematurely aged woman. That was how I’d felt. But looking back was the original me, wet from the tub – sturdy, curvaceous, spiky-haired, wearing the expression which I assumed had become natural to me (because others had sometimes commented on it), one of contained defiance and truculence.

  I may have been a wreck on the inside, but at least I didn’t look it.

  I peered back at myself for a moment. The image in the mirror, especially the eyes, reminded me of someone else but I couldn’t think who. Certainly not either of my parents. I could remember, as a small child, Zinny cupping my chin in her hand and observing. ‘Look at you – little changeling!’ I’d been pleased, both because she’d touched me affectionately, and because she made it sound like a compliment.

  In pyjamas, dressing gown and thick socks I went into the kitchen and warmed soup in a giant cup which I carried into the living room. It was now after eight and quite dark, so I drew the curtains and turned on a couple of lamps. I turned on the radio and listened to a Radio Four debate while I drank my soup. The debate concerned the advisability or otherwise of home births, about which I had no particular view and not much interest, but there was something soothing about listening to these ardent experts articulating their opinions. I found myself wondering what Edwin would think, but like me he was single and childless so perhaps he wouldn’t care much either.

  It wasn’t till I turned off the radio and got up to retrieve the remote from the top of the TV that I noticed the light on the answering machine winking. I hadn’t heard the phone ring, but perhaps that explained the persistent shrill bell in my traffic dream.

  I pressed play. Edwin’s voice filled the room.

  Bother, I’ve missed you … It was a second before I realized he meant not that he’d been missing me, but that he thought I was out. My flight was delayed and I only got back at an ungodly hour this morning, fortunately someone was able to pick me up and provide support systems … Anyway, I know I’ll see you tomorrow, but I didn’t want you to think I’d been around for twenty-four hours and not at least said … I want to say how much I appreciate the way you’ve looked after everything. Really, you’ve gone above and beyond the call of duty. Thank you so much. OK. Well … hope you’re having a good weekend, and see you soon. Bye Flora … Bye.

  I played the message several times, both for the pleasure of hearing his voice, and to try and analyse the pauses and hesitations, and the words themselves.

  Fortunately someone was able to pick me up and provide support systems …

  ‘Someone’ – not ‘Rachel’, though he must know by now that we’d met each other. And not even ‘a friend’, which would have been neutral. ‘Someone’ meant he was being discreet. And what were these ‘support systems’ that she had provided? All the earlier sulphurous bad feeling began to seep through me again. I closed my eyes, tried once again to see myself as I had seen
me in the mirror. That spirited, feisty, square-shouldered young woman – that was me. Not this jealous, lonely wimp, replaying a casual message for crumbs of comfort.

  I turned on the TV and watched a natural history programme for an hour or so, then went back to bed and read my book, or at least gazed at the print and turned the pages; I felt sorry for the author, whose work I usually lapped up. When I did turn the light out I couldn’t sleep: there had been too much of that earlier. I couldn’t leave my stupid feelings alone, couldn’t stop myself picking over not just what I knew, but what I imagined.

  Had Rachel been there, with him, when he made the call? Had she perhaps suggested he make it? Why wouldn’t she, I was no threat to her. I could almost hear her charming throaty voice, No you should – she’s done so much, and she’s such a nice girl. I think it would be appreciated. Go on … She would have passed him the handset. I hated her for her beauty, her kindness, her bloody niceness.

  But not as much as I hated myself.

  Next morning I woke up early, wired but exhausted, and arrived for work on time. I rang the bell and there was no answer. It occurred to me that Edwin, under the cosh of jetlag, might still be asleep, and as I still had the key he’d left me, I let myself in. Even before I saw the sheet of paper on the floor I sensed the place was empty. There’s a hollowness about an empty house, as I’d discovered over recent weeks.

  I picked up the note. My name was in capitals at the top.

  FLORA

  Television’s an imperious master, I’m discovering! Car came for me at seven to whisk me to London, the very last thing I need. Sorry not to welcome you on my first day back, hope you got my message. Look forward to seeing you tomorrow, if I’m spared. E.

  There was a chair next to the table in the hall, an old dining chair with a threadbare brocade seat. I sat down on it and listened to the silence.

  ‘Do you think he has any idea how you feel?’ Elsa asked. She had farmed out the children and we were having tea in the cathedral cafe.

  ‘I don’t see how. No, of course not. He’s my boss – we don’t have that sort of relationship.’